Fallen for Rock

by Wells, Nicky

  ‘No “maybe” about it.’

  Might as well face the facts.

  ‘Well. Here’s a chance to see for myself.’

  I held the tickets up to my face and nodded. I was a desperate woman, and the idea rooted, grew and blossomed, looking more and more reasonable with every heartbeat.

  ‘I’ll go. With or without Nate. I’ll go, and I’ll make good use of these tickets. I’ll go to see MonX.’

  Chapter Nine

  The idea stayed with me and became a distracting reality. It carried me through a hectic lunch with my parents on Sunday, and it permeated my every thought at work. By Wednesday afternoon, I had answered no less than three client calls with ‘MonX’ because I had the VIP passes on my brain, and I had to hastily disguise my inappropriate greeting as a coughing fit. Thank goodness I had an office to myself. And at least this way, I didn’t have time to fret about why Nate still wasn’t calling me back.

  In my lunch hours, I got busy researching ‘the scene’. There was nothing like a bit of data to get a better understanding of what a rock gig might really be like. Anal, perhaps, but I wanted to understand what I was letting myself in for.

  So I looked at album sales, download rankings, Twitter and Facebook followers, capacity of concert venues and sell-out rates, reported incidents, and alleged drug-abuse stories. I read up on ‘rock fan’ demographics and discovered, to my great surprise, that there seemed to be trend towards the ‘greying’ of the fan base of many rock bands. Some of these ‘ageing’ fans were even bringing along the next generation—their kids.

  Unsurprisingly, Mark—my manager—became a little concerned when I forwarded him a spreadsheet full of MonX-related data instead of a merger analysis I was supposed to be preparing.

  ‘This isn’t like you, Emily,’ he said accusingly when he turned up in my office, flapping a printout of the offending spreadsheet and looking both angry and worried.

  ‘I know.’ I felt faint with shock, having discovered my technological mishap only seconds before he flew into my office. I hadn’t had a chance to concoct a plausible excuse, and I had no experience of making things up on the fly.

  ‘I…’

  ‘What is this, anyway?’

  Mark looked at the data as though it was in Chinese. ‘Who are these three million “followers”? Who or what do they follow?’

  ‘Um…’ I suddenly clicked. The data was all there, but I hadn’t labelled the spreadsheet. It was nothing but numbers.

  ‘I’m researching market segments,’ I declared brightly. ‘You know, for the merger. For the big merger. And what it might mean for investors.’

  ‘The “big” merger?’ Mark’s eyes were wide with incredulity. ‘Are you quite sure you’re okay? All your mergers are multimillion-pound mergers. Which one are we talking about?’

  I could feel perspiration spring up under my armpits and a trickle of sweat running down my back. Being ditzy was proving very stressful.

  ‘The…um…the DatErx merger. You know. The computer game people.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Mark nodded. ‘I see. I didn’t know you were already on this one. What about—’

  ‘Crumms?’

  Crumms was a major global biscuit manufacturer under threat, unbelievably, from a small Australian start-up.

  ‘Yes. Crumms.’

  More sweat trickled down my back. I was way behind on that one, courtesy of other things on my mind.

  ‘I’ve got that covered. The Ozzies got no chance. My report will be in your inbox by the end of the day.’

  And so it would be. It might be midnight rather than end of business, but I would get it done. I had to.

  ‘Oh good.’ Mark looked relieved. He even smiled. ‘For a second, I was worried you were losing your touch.’

  ‘Who, me? Your star analyst?’ I coughed modestly. ‘Never. I merely got carried away on this DatErx thing, but Crumms is under control.’

  He left, and I sank onto my chair. That was a close call.

  I deleted the incriminating spreadsheet and wiped all evidence of its existence from my computer. For the rest of the day, I knuckled down and did a rush job on the actual task at hand. I didn’t leave the office until nearly midnight, and I didn’t spend another second thinking about MonX. But when I returned home and there was still no message from Nate, I cried. Time was running out. Only two days to go.

  I slept badly and felt like death warmed up when I presented myself at the office at seven a.m. the following morning. Even my heavy-duty foundation hadn’t been able to hide the shadows under my eyes, and as for my eye-clear drops clearing up those red rims and bloodshot whites… well, ‘epic fail’ didn’t capture it.

  Still, I ensconced myself at my desk with a takeaway cappuccino (double shots) and an almond croissant. If I hunkered down, I might escape thinking of Nate and MonX and maybe even get to leave the office by eight.

  Mark dropped by midmorning to congratulate me on a fantastic job on Crumms, and I smiled weakly. I had a pounding headache and wanted to lie down under my desk. Although right at that moment, getting rid of my enthusiastic manager and his booming voice would have been a start.

  ‘You okay?’ Mark suddenly asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I lied

  ‘You sure? You don’t look so good.’

  No, I know. What are you gonna do about it, send me home? Fat chance.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t sleep well.’

  ‘Emily…’ Mark sat down on my visitor’s chair, and my heart stopped. He never sat down with anyone unless they were getting fired. ‘Emily, I think you’ve been working too hard. There’s no need to go for total burnout here.’

  I stifled a sigh. It’s not burnout, it’s heartbreak.

  Mark picked up a piece of paper from my desk, read it, and idly put it back.

  ‘Well. There’s a memo from HR about looking for signs and stuff…’ He petered out.

  ‘Signs? What signs?’

  ‘You know. Distractedness. Bags under eyes. Fidgety behaviour.’

  I clamped my hands together to keep them still, uncrossed my legs, and sat up straight. ‘I see.’

  ‘But if you’re sure you’re okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. Really.’

  ‘Good. Good.’ He rose to leave.

  Thank God.

  He made it nearly out of the door before he turned back. ‘Emily, when’s the last time you had a holiday?’

  ‘A holiday?’ I snorted. ‘Good God, Mark, I don’t know. A few months ago?’

  ‘Hmm. Just what I thought. Leave it with me.’ And he was gone before I could respond.

  Leave it with me? What on earth was that supposed to mean?

  I found out a mere half hour later. Ping went my email with a new message alert, and there it was, the bombshell from HR.

  To: Emily Trenden

  CC: Mark Boland

  From: Daisy Jones

  RE: Annual leave entitlement

  Emily, it has come to my attention that you have neglected to take any annual leave so far this year. Your accrued leave days can become a liability for the company. Please would you kindly contact me at your earliest convenience to discuss your holiday options going forward. I suggest that you should take at least ten (10) of your accrued days at the earliest possible opportunity.

  On a personal note, and as your senior HR officer, may I add that it is vitally important for your mental and physical health that you should take leave time at regular intervals.

  With best regards

  Daisy Jones

  I stared at this message for quite some time. Other messages came pinging into my inbox, but I didn’t have the bandwidth to deal with them. Of course I understood that my accrued leave could become a liability should I resign or be fired. But becoming a liability in this way hadn’t exactly factored in my plans.

  I hadn’t had any plans, to be perfectly honest. I liked working. What was the meaning of this? Was this some weird HR initiative? Was this Mark getting onto Daisy
because, miracle of miracles, he had discovered a human conscience at working me too hard after all? Or was this a preamble to something else, something altogether more sinister?

  Quite suddenly, I snapped. Perhaps it was a case of exhaustion, or perhaps it was the tone of the message combined with my particular circumstances. I didn’t know why, but I snapped and fired back an email straightaway, with a copy to Mark as Daisy had done.

  Dear Daisy,

  Thank you very much for your message. You are absolutely right. As it happens, I would like to take some annual leave quite urgently, starting from and including tomorrow (Friday) and covering all of next week. Thanks!

  With kindest regards

  Emily

  There. The pounding in my head ceased, a weight lifted from my shoulders, and I could breathe a little more easily already. Maybe I really did need a break.

  Whistling a little tune, I went about wrapping up the day’s business and making some cursory arrangements for somebody else in the department to look after my projects while I went home and did absolutely nothing. Apart from going to that MonX gig on Saturday, of course.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘For heaven’s sake, there’s got to be something I can wear.’

  I sat down abruptly on my bed amongst the entire contents of my wardrobe. The ivory sequins on my favourite glitzy top glittered enticingly, and the label in the back seemed to wink at me. Christian Lacroix.

  I sighed. ‘Much as I love you, Christian, I can’t wear you to this MonX do. For one, you’d get wrecked, and that would be a disaster. And for another, well. You’re not quite right.’

  It was Saturday lunchtime, which meant I was supposed to be at the Hammersmith Apollo in less than four hours, and I had a wardrobe crisis of epic proportions. Me, who had never in her entire life had a wardrobe crisis. I surveyed my Armanis and D&G’s, my Galitzines, Hobbses and Burberries with surprise. Elegant, sophisticated, expensive items, one and all. There were suits and tailored tops, fitted trousers and flowing skirts. Heels, high heels, and stilettoes. I was the proud owner of a veritable treasure chest of office and evening haute couture with matching, equally expensive accessories, but there was nothing suitable here for a rock gig.

  ‘How is it possible that I don’t own a single pair of jeans?’ I demanded of myself. ‘And more to the point, how come I never even noticed that before?’

  It was true. I had never questioned my sartorial choices before, although Nate had sometimes teased me about them.

  Nate. I still hadn’t heard from him even though I had left another message last night, and one very early this morning. At least I hoped I had; an automated answering service had taken the calls, but I had left a message anyway, short and to the point.

  I’m going to the MonX gig today. I’ll be at the Apollo for the soundcheck at four. I’ll bring your ticket and backstage pass. See you there?

  I cast a look at my silent phone. Nate either wasn’t getting my messages, or he wasn’t getting what I was saying. Or he was thoroughly through with me and didn’t want to consider making up.

  My hurt transmuted into a steely resolve. I would go, with or without Nate, and I would have a good time. I would enjoy myself at all costs, if only to prove a point. Specifically, I would show the world that I could do the rock-star hobnobbing thing with the best of them.

  However. To do so, I needed to get dressed.

  I returned my attention to my clothes. Taking a really deep breath, I began sorting through items all over again. There had to be something here that would do.

  You could go shopping for a pair of jeans and a top, a voice piped up in my head. I certainly had enough time to nip up the Kings Road and get something, anything. On the other hand, going shopping would give the gig an undue significance. Somehow that didn’t feel right.

  ‘Nah. I’ll pick something unobtrusive and black.’

  Black. My mind fixed on this colour. Rock stars wore lots of black. Black leather, black shirts, black make-up. Black would be a good choice.

  Working fast and furious now, I replaced anything that wasn’t black on its rightful hanger and returned item by item to the wardrobe. I was left with several pairs of trousers and half a dozen tops. Again, I had had no idea I had so much black stuff.

  I shook my head. ‘How odd.’

  Thinking back, I remembered that Nate had always joked about my wardrobe. ‘You’re a top notch dresser,’ he used to say. ‘But don’t you ever relax, you know, wear something baggy and comfy and colourful?’

  Apparently not.

  Laying out trousers and tops across my bed and matching them in various combinations, I stood back and examined my choices critically. Perhaps, if I swapped around the McCartney and the D&G…yes. Yes!

  Triumphantly, I settled on a slinky pair of black linen trousers and a black halter-neck. The top was sequined in places, but the glitz was understated. If I teamed this ensemble with my black block heels I might look vaguely the part.

  I sniggered. Okay, I wouldn’t look the part, but at least I wouldn’t look wildly out of place. Only mildly.

  Hair. Hair next. What to do with it?

  I regarded my ponytail doubtfully. A ponytail wouldn’t do. I looked wholesome and innocent. Grimace.

  My hands flew to my head, and my fingers executed their daily chignon routine. I didn’t even have to look in the mirror to examine the result. Sleek, elegant and severe. Like I was going to work.

  ‘No. No, no, no. This is rubbish.’

  Frustrated, I yanked at the hairband and pins until my hair fell down freely, spilling over my shoulders and framing my face. Hmm.

  I gave an experimental little toss of the head, and my hair obligingly billowed out before settling down again, slightly mussed. I tossed my head the other way, and forward and back. Getting there.

  Suddenly inspired, I bent forward and shook my hair out. When I straightened up again, I threw my head back with a flourish and examined the result in the mirror. There was a certain texture to my style, some volume, a little frizz. I looked quite unlike me, but I liked it.

  ‘Wild and free,’ I giggled. I turned this way and that to examine the overall effect—clothes, shoes and hair. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. Now add some make-up, and I believe you’ll do, Emily Trenden.’

  I took the Tube to Hammersmith. In my black slinky outfit, with my hair open and more make-up than I usually wore in a week, I felt slightly surreal. Little butterflies of excitement made my tummy flutter, and I wasn’t sure whether this was from hoping that Nate would magically be there, or simply from doing something so very different.

  ‘It’s the magic of rock,’ Nate’s voice whispered in my head, and I jumped. For a second, I felt a little tearful. ‘The magic of rock’ was one of his favourite expressions, but I had always laughed it off. Oh, if only Nate were with me. Maybe the magic of rock would magically fix us, too.

  I sniffed. This wasn’t the time to get morose. Besides, the Tube had pulled in at Hammersmith, and I had to get off. This was it.

  My heart beat fast in my chest, and blood roared in my ears as the escalator carried me towards the exit. The moment of truth. The magic of rock.

  Chapter Eleven

  ‘Holy sugar!’

  I saw the queue as soon as I came out of the Tube station. The line stretched from the front of the Apollo right around the corner towards the Fulham Palace Road. There were a lot of people.

  ‘What are they all doing here? It’s only three-thirty. They can’t all be VIPs, surely?’

  Confusion and dismay warred in my head. I discovered that I didn’t want to turn from one out of a select few into one out of a thousand with backstage passes. ‘Nah. That can’t be right. They’re simply eager fans, that’s all.’

  ‘You intending to cross anytime soon, luv, or are you planning to set down roots here?’ An old woman nudged me on the shoulder.

  ‘Sorry,’ I gabbled. ‘I was lost in thoughts.’

  ‘I’d noticed.’ She laughed. ‘
Are you joining them mad people over there?’ She nodded her head in the direction of the throng of MonX fans.

  ‘As a matter of fact, I am,’ I acknowledged, noting with surprise the hint of pride in my voice. ‘I’m a VIP today. I won’t be queuing up.’

  ‘Good on yer, luv. You have yourself a nice time now.’ She looked at the traffic lights and shuffled off past me. I jumped to. Green again—time to go.

  As I crossed the roads under the flyover, I realised that there were even more people than I had previously thought. If only Nate were here—he would know what to do. My fingers found my mobile phone in my pocket and grasped it gratefully. I would call him one more time. Maybe he would answer at last.

  No sooner thought than done. But sixty seconds later, I was back to square one. No answer.

  So be it. I squared my shoulders. You’ll have to figure this one out by yourself, Emily. It can’t be that difficult.

  With an anxious heart, I went exploring and headed towards the box office. I went straight past it at first as the crowd was dozens of people deep, but then I skidded to a halt. At the side of the building, away from the waiting fans and fenced off by barricades in their own right, there were two big doors. I stood and stared. They had to be the stage doors.

  I put myself into a corporate mindset. Ooze confidence. You belong. You have the pass. Go and knock. You have every right to.

  With each word of encouragement that I muttered in my head, I took a step forward and quickly reached the far right door. I lifted my hand and rapped against it smartly. Nothing happened.

  Suppressing an inexplicable wave of panic, I addressed myself to the other door, tapping out an imperious tattoo of knocks this time. I had arrived, thank you very much, now I wanted in.

  I was only a few steps away from the barricaded fans, and their giggles and jeering rang out loud and clear over the street.